


warm blood

by MicrosuedeMouse



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 04:04:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15699792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MicrosuedeMouse/pseuds/MicrosuedeMouse
Summary: you're fire, but sweethot coals beneath my feetwarm blood, bodyand I lost it when you found me





	warm blood

**Author's Note:**

> there's a song by my favourite band, flor, that always makes me think of Gallya. it's called warm blood and I've been meaning to write a fic inspired by it for ages. I'm not 100% convinced I've done it justice, but given how much I love this song and this band I don't know that I could _ever_ feel like I've done it justice.
> 
> I strongly recommend listening to the song if you have a few minutes (and also... the whole album, if you have around forty) but for your benefit, here are the lyrics - as originally penned by the band's frontman and primary writer, and a man I am unbearably lucky to call a friend, Zach Grace. [chorus/bridge repetitions not included]
> 
> _your shoulder_   
>  _bare, and staring me down now_   
>  _and I'm older_   
>  _but don't mean I can't learn your ways_
> 
> _wait for me, I'll be coming, slower down_
> 
> _you're fire, but sweet_   
>  _hot coals 'neath my feet_   
>  _warm blood and body_   
>  _and I lost it when you found me_   
>  _you're whispers in sunlight_   
>  _cold hands feeling for mine_   
>  _warm love, softly_   
>  _never let it_   
>  _never let it... love go_
> 
> _turn over_   
>  _safe and sound here in our world_   
>  _and I'll stay here in all to get to know you_
> 
> _but really know you_
> 
> (fair warning: Zach is notoriously hard to understand at times when he sings and openly admits to changing the lyrics when he feels like it, and he also often claims that it's more important what listeners hear than what he says... so these lyrics are approximate at best lmfao. these come from the sleeve of the vinyl edition of the album, so they're the closest to official that the fans will probably ever get, haha.)

Illya isn’t sure if he truly knows what’s happening. Gaby’s across the room, her back to him, but she knows he’s watching – that’s why she’s doing this, it’s more than clear. As she unbuttons the blouse and lets it slide lazily off her shoulder, his pulse quickens, and god, why can’t she ever make anything simple for him?

He knows the answer to this, really. It’s because when she leaves it up to him, he always finds excuses. Now that it’s real and it means something and he has a genuine chance, he’s not sure if he can do it. He keeps choking. It’s foolish, frankly, because he knows what he wants, and it’s the same thing she wants, and anyone looking in from the outside would take him by the shoulders and _shake_ him for missing the opportunity. It’s not as if rejection is even on the table – she’s inviting him. So the real question becomes: why does he keep holding back?

He stares at that bare shoulder and he thinks, almost absurdly, _she’s so young_. And it’s not that he’s old, not remotely, but seven years’ difference feels like it should be significant. He knows that most men in this day and age still wouldn’t bat an eye at that – certainly, no one in his parents’ generation would object – but the two of them have such different experiences of the world. He’s been everywhere and he’s seen so much and he’s got so many scars. She’s spent most of her life within the confines of the Berlin Wall, and while that’s hardly a shelter, it’s still limited her. She’s far from innocent, he knows that, and far from unhurt, he knows that too. But she hasn’t seen what he’s seen. He’s afraid to… _soil_ her. She still has a chance, he thinks; one that he doesn’t any more.

Finally Gaby turns her face, peers at him over that bared shoulder, her raised brows an invitation, and he feels his last defenses crumble. How can he say no to this, to her? How can he possibly resist the draw of the only thing he’s craved to have for his own in _years?_ Looking at her face he can see the mischief and the seduction but then- beneath it- maybe she’s vulnerable, too. Maybe her heart wishes for company the same way his does.

And maybe he won’t damage her, pollute the goodness in her, steal that chance away. Maybe he can learn from her how to get his back. Being with her makes him remember a time when he was more than this, and maybe staying with her can remind him how to be more than this again.

It’s the first step that’s the hardest, but she must be able to see him trying, because she turns back away, and the blouse slips a little further down as she undoes another button. He pleads with her silently to wait for him, during the eons it takes for him to cross that room, close the distance. It’s been a century at least by the time he finally hovers just behind her, wondering how to begin, how he could ever hope to give her what she deserves. Her patience must be endless.

And then he dips his head low and gently kisses her shoulder, and everything is on fire. Her skin is so warm to the touch, when she tips her head back just slightly and lets out the tiniest sigh and melts into the press of his fingers. After so much overthinking Illya suddenly can’t summon a single thought – his mind slips away from him like dust on a draft through the window. She sighs his name and there’s nothing left of him but instinct, and the rush of blood, and the bottomless desire to stay here where she is.

He kisses his way up her neck, slowly, reverently, and sweeps her hair to one side so that he can keep going. She’s glowing from the attention – shining, even. Her hands eventually drift up behind her, searching softly for his; in contrast to the heat of her neck, her fingers seem cold – or are his just too warm, now, from touching her? Gently she leads his hands down in front of her, to the last few buttons of her shirt, and he’s present enough to understand what she wants. Carefully, like she’s something sacred, he finishes undoing the buttons, pulls the top down her arms and lets it fall to the floor. Her bra comes next, because he can tell that for all her patience she’s not interested in wasting time.

He’s utterly in love, and he was a fool to try to escape that, and now he never wants to let her go.

Somehow they manage to fall together into the bed and Gaby twists in his embrace, laying back against the covers and finally facing him. Her cool hands find his face and pull him in to kiss her properly, on the mouth. Still kissing him, she unbuttons his shirt as well, pushes it away from his shoulders in a bid to reach more of him. There was a time when he might have worried, because they haven’t locked the door and they’re in the middle of a job and this is all so irresponsible, but right now the world is no bigger than their own two bodies, and in that world he knows they’re completely safe. He hasn’t felt so certain, so protected, in almost as long as he can remember.

They have to break apart in order for her to pull his undershirt over his head, and then he simply hovers over her for a moment, staring at her in awe. She’s everything, he realises. Absolutely everything. All he wants in life is to know her, completely and utterly, in every way he possibly can. It’s not rational but it’s the only thing he can feel – perhaps it’s the only thing he’s ever felt? He can’t remember anything else, can’t convince himself there’s even one other thing in his entire life that matters.

She smiles so lovingly and murmurs his name, drawing her fingers through his hair, and he dissolves into her.

Later, they lay together in the bed, a sated and happy tangle of limbs, and Illya marvels at the reality he finds himself living. He can’t stop telling her he loves her, not least because – amazingly – she keeps saying it back. Softly they murmur promises and assurances, and she’s really being remarkably sweet, and he thinks she probably realises how much this means to him. How much it means _for_ him. He knows that tomorrow they will go back to their play, and he looks forward to it – but this gentle kind of love is important, too.

Eventually she drifts off to sleep, nestled into his side, just as the last of the evening light slants in through the narrow opening in the curtains and lands on the back of her shoulders. Placing his hand there, where the light meets her skin, he thinks again about how warm she is. How alive. She radiates with it – the warmth, the energy. She’s like a fire, he observes: joyous, overwhelming, dangerous, sustaining, unpredictable, consuming. A warning, or a welcome home. For so long he had worried she might be the former, but now he knows she’ll always be the warm hearth where he can take refuge.

He presses his palm flush against her, in awe as always of how full of life she is. Warm blood coursing through her, just beneath her skin, infused with a spark the likes of which he’s never seen. She shifts slightly, and he looks down to see one of her hands drifting across the sheet he’s pulled across them, searching for him. Her fingers are cold when he meets her, and she tucks them inside his hand, and for the hundredth time today alone, he’s overcome. He’ll never let her go, not as long as he lives.

His Gaby.


End file.
